


He Who Lives in Fear

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, S4 existed but not in the way the way we thought, S4 fix-it, Serious S4 Dragging, Sorry it ended up being angstier than I intended, mary is evil, mention of suicidal thoughts, reference to mental illness, the baby is fake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-12-10 22:25:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11701107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: Set after the events of The Abominable Bride, this story endeavors to explain the events of S4 in a way that actually makes sense.A bit of a character study on John as he shares his greatest fears. John and Sherlock confront their feelings for one another, Mary gets revenge, there’s some angst and suffering, but it all ends well.My first ever fic!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tellywhich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellywhich/gifts).



_Domestiphobia - do.mes.ti.pho.bi.a -- the exaggerated, inexplicable and/or irrational fear of domestic life._

Domesticity.

A nice partner in the suburbs. A family. The mini-van. The music lessons. The French tutoring, the diapers, the sleepless nights. Traditional. Usual. Civilian. Normal.

The thought of this type of life is all horrifying to John Watson. For as much as he is seen as an upstanding person, he has never really wanted normal at all.

But recently, life has become a bit troubling in ways he couldn’t have predicted. And at times like this, John supposes “normal” might not be the worst thing imaginable.

John has recently discovered that his pregnant wife was an assassin, and that she shot his best friend. A short time later he watched, helplessly, as the same man shot and killed someone, only to be sent away into exile. And a few nights ago, he found this very same best friend on a plane semiconscious after taking enough drugs to have killed himself.

Yes, perhaps normal would be good after all.

John doesn’t truly recall a time he particularly craved the golden path toward domesticity. A life of adventure, adrenalin, excitement- those have always been what appealed to John the most. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t tried. Tried to obtain it. Tried to want it- what other people seem to want.

Upon John’s return from Afghanistan, he had been thrown from a life of heroism into a sedentary life without purpose. Emptiness echoing through his entire being, he drifted, endlessly, day to day.

Having been invalided, the things he wanted most were no longer an option. So he convinced himself that his only chance at happiness would be to attain the life others seemed to effortlessly settle into. John Watson was nothing if not devoted; and he believed that with enough therapy and time, he could gradually accept that this is what he should want.

Then, on one particular day, Sherlock Holmes had borrowed John Watson’s mobile phone, and all of his plans were completely thrown away. John could never quite tell if he was angry at Sherlock for ruining his plans, or if he was thankful that he saved him from them. Usually, it was a little of both.

Of course, John, being the dedicated man he is, always continued to make an effort. He got a job at the surgery and attempted to date people; though it always became quite clear- and quite quickly- that John preferred a lifestyle that only one person could provide.

When Sherlock had died, a large part of John died too. Picking up the pieces, John swore to himself that he would try again to carry on with the illustrious “normal” life. Isn’t that what Sherlock would have wanted? For John to be happy and fulfilled?

And he soon met Mary, at the perfect time, seeing in her a chance of the life he needed to want. He felt that he needed to jump into a marriage with her, head first. Because people do that. They commit themselves to other people, to ideas, to futures entailing all of these...things. Things that would never have been possible for John to obtain if he had what- and who- he truly longed for.

It isn’t that John never loved Mary. He had, of course, in the way he thought he should. And it had been nice, for a time.

But whatever John feels for Mary, it has never compared to the deep, maddening, burning, yet silent need that he feels for Sherlock Holmes.

Back then, however, none of it had mattered. He had believed Sherlock to be dead, and Mary was very much alive.

And then, miraculously, Sherlock wasn’t dead anymore. And it really messed things up. Again. But it was too little, too late. John was already committed. He had to do the right thing. For the marriage. For the family. The domesticity. The lifestyle.

And of course, it all became a spectacular failure. The woman he had chosen to give him “normal” had only given him lies and put a bullet in his best friend.

“John. You were saying...? About your choice of lifestyle?”

A voice pulls John out of his reverie and back into the room he is presently sitting in. He lifts his head and gazes at the face before him.

“I should have known that kind of life would never suit me,” John says. “I think I always did. Truth is, I should have just accepted it long ago."

Fidgeting, he glances back down, while reaching up and ruffling his fingers through his short, sandy hair. In doing so, he is reminded of a ridiculous fight he and Mary had, several weeks prior. “You know,” he chuckles, “she has always hated my military haircut. She says that I should grow it out. She loves all of those blokes with the long, swoopy hair. And as mad as it sounds, I resent her for it.”

John has never considered himself a vain man, but as much as he hesitates to admit, he is quite attached to his short hairstyle. It is one of the last things that connects him to his military career.

And it was the first thing that Sherlock had noticed about him.

“When she suggested I grow my hair out, it… I don’t know. It was like flipping a switch. I suddenly thought, ‘I’m losing myself, and becoming part of someone else.’ Was this what the rest of my life would be - my wife making my decisions for me, no matter how trivial, trying to change who I am?”

John tilts his head to one side and regards the pair of eyes lying upon him. “You’ve gone quiet,” he prods.

“Yes. Erm, I was just... trying to picture you with a different look and, well, it’s not really… you.”

John blinks and sports a half-grin. “So what do you think of me, now? A brave man whose innermost fear involves growing out his lovely locks?”

“Well, it is something that symbolises domesticity for you. And domesticity is something you’re not too keen on. You prefer a life of adventure. Everyone who knows you for more than five minutes is aware of that.”

John sighs lightly, dropping his hands to his lap. “I doubt you would think very highly of me if you knew the other things I worry about. There are… many. More than I care to admit. I just don’t show it.”

“I hate to inform you, but you don’t actually hide it as well as you think you do,” the voice across from John drawls.

John ponders this before continuing. “I can’t help but think these phobias make me more than a little abnormal.”

“John. I’ve never for one second thought you to be normal, and that’s truly one of your greatest strengths.”

John smiles weakly, his thoughts creeping back to Mary. Mary has always wanted him to be someone who he isn’t. The family man, the perfect husband, the perfect father, the perfect lover. John opens his mouth thoughtfully and continues. “The man she thinks I am, I’m not that guy. I never could be.”

“Perhaps not. But there is no need to be. You’re John Watson, and that’s quite enough.”

John pauses, mustering the courage to say the next few words. “Even though you’re awful at giving compliments, I have to say: I've shown you the worst of myself, but I know you still see the best.” He pauses, swallowing. “That’s the man I want to be.”

“You already are, of course. If I see it, it must be true. It is, after all, my duty to observe, and I’m very seldom wrong.”

A surge of satisfaction wells up in John’s chest. He isn’t usually one to open up like this, but the past few days have been emotionally charged, to say the least. John needs this. To open himself up and let it go. And there is only one person in whom he trusts to do that.

John sits up straight in his chair, lips turning into a smirk. “Well, Sherlock. Just wait until you hear about the clown phobia.”

 

* * *

 

 _Angrophobia - an.gro.pho.bi.a --  fear of anger or becoming angry._  
  
Anger.  
  
_Vauxhall Arches._  
_“What the Hell do you think you’re doing, mate?” John demands, grabbing the man by his collar and yanking him away from the woman next to them. “She asked you to stop- are you deaf or just an idiot?”_  
  
_“Oi, mate, I was just teachin’ her a lesson. Don’t worry, she was enjoying it!” the young man smirks. “Who are you, anyway?” He lifts a single finger and pokes John square in the forehead between the eyes, reaching out with his other hand and squeezing the woman’s arse._  
  
_John can’t say much about what happens next, because there are no actual thoughts, just instinct. Only a white hot rage forming within him as he pulls the young man closer. “I’m her brother,” John snarls. And before he can even think, his fist makes contact. The young man is on the ground now, but John can’t stop. He is hitting him, over and over._

\---  
  
Sometimes, John gets angry.    
  
He doesn’t want to hurt people. But it happened, once, when he was barely more than a teenager. Since that day, when he feels that rage begin to bubble up within him, he must make a hugely concerted effort to suppress it. In the beginning, it was obvious what he was attempting to do- he would yell and throw things, but never hurt a person. Over time, he’s gotten better at hiding it. The telltale signs of his fists clenching and unclenching, his breath quickening, his lips pursing- those are what remain. Even now, though, there are certain moments that he’s worried he may not be able to keep it contained. John knows that he would never forgive himself if he were to hurt someone he cared for. But as of late, there has been only one person to wake up that particular demon inside him.

\---  
  
_The previous night._  
  
_“Did you make a list?” Mycroft inquires, remaining absolutely calm though his eyes are wild with noticeable concern._  
  
_John has heard about “the list” before, from Lestrade. Since Sherlock was much younger, he had made a pact with Mycroft - if he were to take drugs, he would write down the exact combination and dosage. To Mycroft, it was a way of tracking what his brother had taken, but to Sherlock, it was all for vanity’s sake. What he could take and get away with. The perfect mixture. Chemistry._  
  
_John refuses to believe, at first, that the Sherlock they found on the plane, unconscious, had taken drugs. He’d done it before, right after the wedding. And John had, shortly after, found the time to take him aside, threatening to break every bone in his body if he dare do that again._  
  
_So it can’t be true, John insists. He is just deep within his mind palace, a trance. He’d seen it before. A neat trick._  
  
_But then John sees the list. And this particular mixture of drugs should have killed Sherlock. There is no way Sherlock is unaware of that fact. John becomes livid._  
  
_After all John had been through with his death, and the heartbreak he’d endured from losing him? Those two unbearable, lonely, empty years- how could Sherlock do that to him again? Did he even, for one second, think about how he’d be affecting those who cared for him?_  
  
_John’s left fist opens and closes tightly. The pit of his stomach burns, and the feeling of fire spreads throughout his chest. He clenches his teeth hard in an effort to keep calm, but the rage is slowly overcoming him._  
  
_Sherlock doesn’t notice. He argumentatively dismisses Mycroft’s words of concern, going on about some nonsense having to do with Emelia Ricoletti._  
  
_John is so angry. He wants to scream at Sherlock. He wants to take him by the shoulders and shake him and ask him what the hell he is doing._  
  
_He clenches both of his fists harder, digging his nails into his palms. Mary is there. Mycroft is there. He can’t let his anger show. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting air in and out, but his skin still buzzes with rage._  
  
_And it subsides- this time._

\---  
  
"Well, then." Sherlock folds his hands across his stomach as he sprawls across the sofa of 221B. "As I'm practically tied to this sofa for now, and I fear I may soon die of boredom, please continue to share your deepest fears with me."  
  
John rolls his eyes slightly at Sherlock's sarcasm, but his tone quickly becomes serious. “Sherlock," he says, clearing his throat. "I got very angry with you yesterday. On the plane. You know that, right?"  
  
“Did you?” Sherlock smiles crookedly and peeks back up at John. “I must have been too high to notice.”

John grits his teeth. “Sherlock,” he warns. “That isn’t funny.”

Sherlock waves his hand haphazardly, dismissing John’s confession. “You’re afraid of your own anger. You shouldn’t be. Anger issues are quite common in sufferers of PTSD. Trauma can actually alter the development of the victim’s brain, thereby-”  
  
“That doesn’t make it okay.” John interrupts. “And...it wasn’t really the first time it's happened to me. Honestly, it would only take one time for something bad to happen.” He hesitates. “I lost it with a stranger once. Some complete idiot who… was harassing someone I cared about. I hurt him. A bit. More than a bit,” he confesses.  
  
Sherlock furrows his brow thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re afraid that one day, you might lose your temper at the wrong person."  
  
John lowers his head. “What if I was unable to control my anger and... if that happened again, only I hurt someone close to me? I could never forgive myself.”  
  
“Do you worry you’ll hurt me?” Sherlock scoffs. “I mean, I suppose you are able to, physically, but I just can’t imagine you losing control of yourself in that way.”  
  
John moves forward in his chair, leaning closer to Sherlock. Their eyes meet and John lowers his voice to a near whisper. “I’m a dangerous man, Sherlock. I’ve killed before.”  
  
Sherlock tries, unsuccessfully, to suppress a laugh. “Yes, that's true, John. But it was out of necessity, and not borne of anger. Anger is a normal human reaction. You may have a bit of rage that comes out from time to time. It’s understandable-”  
  
“Is it? Why? Why is it understandable?”

“John.” Sherlock says, his voice deep and calm. “Yesterday, you found me on the plane, and I had taken a LOT of drugs.”  
  
“Yes.” John clenches his fist. “Why are you talking about this, I-”  
  
“And you probably wanted to hurt me, just a bit.”  
  
John looks at the ground once again, guilt rising within him. “I wanted to, for a brief second. I really...yeah, I wanted to hurt you.”  
  
“But you did not.”  
  
“But I could have.”  
  
Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh. “Look, John. Look at where you are now,” he says, as he gestures to their surroundings. “You’re here, with me. You’ve been here with me since then.”  
  
John’s face grows flushed at Sherlock’s assessment. It is true, he did come straight to Baker Street after finding Sherlock on the plane. But Sherlock needs someone to look after him. Just for a little bit. To ensure he doesn’t try something stupid again.  
  
_“Dr. Watson, look after him. Please?" Mycroft had pleaded before they had gotten off the plane._  
  
John didn’t even need to be asked. He knew where he was needed most. He knew where he wanted to be.  
  
Sherlock continues, raising an eyebrow at John. “You may have had the urge to get… physical with me,” he states.  “For a moment. But your urges were subsided by your true nature - you’re a caretaker.” He again gestures toward himself in order to elaborate his point. “That part of you is much more powerful.”  
  
John inhales softly, considering this. “As angry as I was...still am, by the way…I may get the urge occasionally, but you're right. I would never… you know… purposely hurt you.”  
  
“On the contrary, John. You’ve always been the first, if not the only one, who never fails to protect me.”  
  
John’s isn’t quite sure how to respond to this acknowledgment from Sherlock. “I…” he stammers. “I mean, I haven't always been…”  
  
“John, you killed a man to save my life within hours of knowing me. As if I could forget that absolutely gaudy display of heroism.” Sherlock's lips turn up, the sides of his eyelids crinkling into a reassuring smile. "I know you would never hurt me."  
  
John knows, deeply, that Sherlock is right. He looks down at his hands. Soldier’s hands. Hands that had killed, both in battle and out. But also, doctor’s hands. Hands that had saved a great many more.  
  
Hands that will, John feels, protect Sherlock’s life until the day they could no longer function.

 

* * *

  
_Side effects may include memory loss, unconsciousness, hallucinations, and bouts of rage._  
  
Mary pulls the black mask from her face to enable her to read the small warning label smoothly placed upon a large IV bag. She draws her gun from her pocket and points it toward the high, pristine ceiling, letting a single bullet erupt from the barrel with an explosive roar.  
  
“Let me be perfectly clear with you, Professor,” she hisses. “You are going to tell me everything you know about this drug, and if I find out you’ve left out a single detail, your daughter will be dead before morning.”  
  
Professor Chang huddles into the corner of the laboratory, holding her hands before her as a symbol of acquiescence. She is a slight woman, in her mid-40s, with dark hair and expressive almond eyes. “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know,” she blurts out.  
  
Mary arches an eyebrow callously and lowers her gun. “Well, I suppose the first thing I’d like to know is...Why? This medicine had a different purpose to it originally, did it not?”  
  
The professor continues to slink down until she is gathered into a heap on the floor. “Originally, it was meant to be a treatment for PTSD.” Her eyes grow glassy as she continues. “We just… we wanted to help trauma sufferers find a way to erase the hideous memories that were ruining their lives. But…” she exhales shakily. “It ended up having the opposite effect.”  
  
“Opposite?” Mary scoffs. “So people remembered their trauma?”  
  
“Actually, yes,” the Professor grimaces. “The subjects became...almost completely entranced. They felt like they were reliving specific moments in their life, only there was a sort of different...layer to it.”  
  
“How so?” Mary presses.  
  
“They would tell us the strangest things: ‘my house was not my house. Everything was just slightly… different.' Furniture taking on strange characteristics, like glowing. Doors or windows disappearing and reappearing in different places.”  
  
“Sounds mildly insanity-inducing,” Mary says, “but please, tell me there is more to it.”  
  
“Yes, it got much, much worse,” The Professor continues, her bottom lip trembling as she speaks.  
  
“Oh, please indulge me,” Mary’s words ooze fake saccharine as she pulls out a lab chair and takes a seat. “I want to know everything there is to know about this drug… what do you call it?”  
  
The Professor bites her lip slightly to stop it from trembling and lowers her eyes to the floor. “It’s called TD-12.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Syngenesophobia - syn.gene.so.pho.bi.a --  Fear of family members.  
_  
Family.  
  
Mary narrows her eyes, clucking her tongue humorlessly and focusing on the timid professor sitting on the floor before her. This woman is willing to give up her entire life’s work just to protect her daughter. If one ever wants to bend someone to their will, Mary thinks, all they ever need is to take advantage of a familial bond.  
  
It was a fantastic manipulation technique. So far, it had worked quite well on John. Give him the promise of a family, a baby on the way, and there was nothing he wasn't willing to do. Such a sentimental man.  
  
And Mary is a damn good liar. Even Sherlock Holmes had not been able to deduce that there was no actual child growing inside her.   
  
Mary glances back at the medicine bag and runs her fingers slowly over the skin. “TD-12,” she whispers. “Invented to cure PTSD, but didn’t quite work.”  
  
“No. No, it didn’t,” Professor Chang responds.  
  
“You said that there were... horrible things that happened to the test subjects?” Mary inquires. “I want to know what those things were.”  
  
The professor wipes her face, clearing the moisture off of her cheeks, and clears her throat. “The test subjects went into a comatose state.”  
  
“For how long?”  
  
“Usually no longer than 4-5 hours; but from their perspective, it seemed like weeks or months.”  
  
“And you said it was a sort of alternate reality?” Mary asks.  
  
“Yes. From what the subjects said- they didn’t even realize, at the time, that they were unconscious. The transition was seamless. It was just life, as normal. Again, though, tiny inconsistencies, such as mirroring of objects, occurred.”  
  
“The room flipping thing?” Mary says, grinning.  
  
“Yes.” The Professor gives a tired sigh.  
  
“Funny.”  
  
The professor’s face grows more uncomfortable as she continues. “The subjects would relive moments from the past mixed with new experiences. But then the trauma began to set in.”  
  
“The trauma from the PTSD?” Mary attempts to clarify.  
  
“Sometimes that, but usually even more traumatic. Everything they feared the most came true. Every worst case scenario became reality.”  
  
“So,” Mary says. “A living nightmare.”  
  
“If only it were that,” the professor grimaces. “For our subjects, these things  were happening. It’s as though the TD-12 seeped into their brains and withdrew their greatest fears.”  
  
“Did it have any sort of… physical effect on them?” Mary asks.  
  
“During the episodes, we had to restrain some of them. They were often hysterical and screaming.”  
  
“And what happened when they awoke?”  
  
Chang’s eyes grow glassy, and her voice softens.  
  
“When they woke up, most of them still didn’t realize it had all been a hallucination. They had no concept of what was real and what wasn’t, even in their waking state. Driven to insanity. The ones who recovered were...able to eventually tell us what had happened. But a few of them never returned to normal.”  
  
Mary smiles. “Pity. Possibly having to spend the rest of their lives stuck in a false reality where their worst fears had come true. A hell, never to be escaped. The guilt must be killing you, Professor.”  
  
Chang inhales shakily, closing her eyes and letting her breath stagger in and out. “Yes,” she agrees. “I'm living my own worst nightmare right now.”  
  
“For some people, death can be such a sweet release,” Mary says. Then, in one swift motion, she tucks the bag of medicine into her coat pocket, points her gun at the professor, and shoots her straight in the head.

* * *

  
  
“Well, I guess I'd have to say that all of my fears and insecurities started with my parents,” John reflects before taking a sip of his tea.  
  
“Oh. God, the cliche.” Sherlock leans his head back onto the couch and rolls his eyes, but his lips upturn slightly to reveal a hint of playfulness in his statement.  
  
“Well, it could always be worse, I suppose,” John teases. “At least I didn’t have to grow up fending off Mycroft at family dinners.”  
  
“Yes, true. How I envy you.” Sherlock exhales dramatically.  
  
John’s humour fades, his eyes lowering. “Anyway, I guess you know that my relationship with Harry is a bit...strained. And I haven’t spoken to my parents in decades. Not since I left home at eighteen.” He sighs deeply. “We grew up very poor. My mother is bipolar. My father is an utter raging alcoholic with violent anger issues.” John purses his lips. “They beat Harry, both of them. And me, until I was old enough to defend myself.”  
  
A genuine look of horror spreads upon Sherlock’s face. “John, I- I apologize. I shouldn’t have said what I did a moment ago-”  
  
“No, it’s fine,” John smiles reassuringly. “I don’t really talk about it at all, and even though you can always read me, it was so long ago that I wouldn’t have expected you to know. I've always just felt so ashamed that I wasn't able to keep her safe. So when they beat her, I did all that I could… I looked after her. Helped bandage her up if she needed it, gave her comfort.”  
  
Sherlock raises an eyebrow, putting up a hand thoughtfully. “John, if I may share a few things I've just determined about you-”  
  
John lets out a small, quick laugh. “Since when do you actually ask, Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock ignores John’s comment, going straight into his assessment. “From a young age, you needed to know how to defend yourself and protect your sister. And that must be what drew you to military service. You wanted to serve justice against the evils of the world. But it wasn’t enough for you to fight against those who hurt others; you wanted to heal those who had been hurt.” Sherlock’s eyes gaze up at John with what John could almost swear is admiration. “And so you became a doctor.”  
  
John inhales deeply, recalling many terrible memories at once, but there is one that always pushes its way to the forefront of his mind. It is one he doesn't revisit often. “Harry had just turned eighteen, and was in her last year of secondary school. I was fourteen. She was found by a teacher in the bathroom kissing another girl.” John feels a lump forming in his throat and he swallows hard.  “When my father found out, he beat her senseless. I had to pull him off of her. That was the day I finally fought back.” The back of his eyes begin to burn and he blinks a few times. “Sorry, I- I get emotional thinking about it.”  
  
“Understandable. And undoubtedly, this caused you to fear your parents a great deal, which is why you're talking about it now.”  
  
“Well, yes, but that isn’t the only thing I'm afraid of.” He hesitates. “After that...Harry ran away, of course. She lived on the street. She had a tent she would stay in, near Vauxhall arches. I would sneak out and visit her when I could.”  
  
“But your family could never know you were doing this, or you would potentially find yourself on the streets as well.”  
  
John forces another breathy laugh. “It sometimes felt as though I’d never even had a sister. My parents flat out pretended she had never existed. At that point, she was able to live on her own, legally, so it wasn’t a problem with the police. And I didn’t dare speak to anyone about it, for fear of being in the same situation.”  
  
“And how did she fare on the streets?”  
  
John lowers his head. “Not good. Drank constantly. Got into drugs." He pauses. “As I got older, I started to realize that she had been exhibiting symptoms of schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder. There were definite signs of the latter during our childhood, but I was too young to understand what was happening at the time."  
  
"Oh, multiple personalities? How interesting."  
  
“Sherlock.” John shakes his head.  
  
“How many were there? Er, different personalities?” Sherlock asks.

  
“I only ever encountered three. I can’t remember too well. It seems like one was supposedly the daughter of a famous entrepreneur. And the other was a therapist, if you can believe it,” he chuckles.  “I was too young to truly help her. It wasn’t until I left home and made money of my own that I was able to do anything. Got her back on her feet. Got her therapy and medication for her illness. I was, erm, very surprised you knew about her existence so soon after meeting me- I mean, it's not as though she's some huge secret; I just don't talk about her often.”  
  
Sherlock laughs. “An insane ‘secret sister.’ That's quite ridiculous, John.”  
  
“Is it?" John asks, amused. “Well, I suppose so. You thought she was my brother.”  
  
“Admittedly, a sister - it didn't occur to me at first. But I still don't quite understand why you're afraid of her. Surely, if she’s gotten help, she can’t be as terrible as you say.”  
  
“Haven’t you wondered why you’ve never met her?” John inquires. “Why she has never once come around, in all the years I’ve known you?”  
  
“I hadn’t thought much of it. I preferred it that way, actually. Not good with people,” Sherlock shrugs.  
  
“She’s unpredictable. She drinks a lot. She can be less than dependable when it comes to taking her medication. And when she's not consistent with it, she can be a danger to others. She’s extremely charming and manipulative, almost as though she has this insane control over others,” John blinks slowly. “I wouldn’t want her to hurt someone.”  
  
“That explains why she wasn’t at the wedding.”  
  
“Well, partially.” John pauses. “A few weeks after she and Clara split up, I got a phone call from the police. She had been found standing at the edge of a bridge, about to jump. When they finally pulled her away, she was carrying nothing but a gun in her purse. Her arms were covered in scars from self-mutilation...” John exhales. “We admitted her to a long term mental health facility. Since then, she’s been in and out.” He leans his head into his right hand, as if trying to cover his expression of pain. “Mostly in, though. It was the only thing I could think of to do for her.”  
  
The room falls silent for a long moment, until finally, Sherlock lifts his himself from the couch, sitting up straight. “John,” he begins, “I’ve never had a sister. But if I did, I can only determine that I would not have done half as much for her as you have for Harriet. Every decision you’ve made has been one that any caring, intelligent family member would have done.”  
  
John smiles wistfully. “Thank you for saying that.”  
  
Sherlock tilts his head a bit. “And knowing this-” he pauses. “Knowing this, it’s become obvious why it upsets you so much to see me on drugs. It reinstates the negative feelings of Harriet’s past.”  
  
John’s chest clenches a bit. Honestly, he had never considered that aspect of it. Of course it upset him when Sherlock took drugs, but the reasons for that were something different altogether. “Well, that’s-” he stammers. “I mean, it’s a different kind of dynamic...so it's not quite the same thing. But, sure.” John's mouth flattens as he stares pointedly into Sherlock's eyes. “I guess you could say that seeing you so close to death brings up some very, very painful memories.”  
  
Sherlock gives the tiniest grimace of realization, raising his brows. The two of them continue to stare at one another for several seconds, their breaths, rising and falling, the only sound in the room.  
  
“John…” Sherlock is finally able to muster. “I can't ever truly apologize enough for having left you alone, back when- well, you know.”  
  
“Back when you pretended to be dead for two years and left me to mourn?”  
  
“Yes- sorry again for that.”  
  
“You know I’ve already forgiven you.” John shakes his head rapidly, breaking their gaze. “Sherlock, I know it’s not possible to see into the future, but just… promise me you'll do everything in your power to stay off of the drugs from now on. Alright?”  
  
Much to John's surprise, Sherlock looks back up at him, his face sad. “Before I can answer that,” he says, “I need to ask you one thing.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“What I would like to know is this: are you ... planning on leaving me?”  
  
John is caught off guard by the candidness of Sherlock’s question. “Leaving you? What do you mean, leaving you?”  
  
Sherlock seems to search carefully for his words. “Do you plan on- sometime in the future, removing me from your life, whether it be in a temporary, or more permanent fashion?”  
  
“Of course not, Sherlock.” John smiles comfortingly. “Does this look like leaving to you?”  He glances around the living room, and then back at his friend. “I think it’s obvious that I’m not going anywhere.”

“Right.” Sherlock nods slowly, visibly becoming more relaxed. “Then, yes. As long as you’re here, I'll stay clean.”

 

* * *

 

 

 _Paralipophobia (pa.ra.li.po.pho.bi.a) - the irrational fear of neglecting duty or responsibility.  
_  
Captain. Doctor. Husband. Friend. And soon, father. The responsibilities that come with a single one of these roles was enough to intimidate some people. But John is no stranger to obligations, and is one who rarely, if ever, shies away from them. This doesn't stop him from being, at times, inexplicably afraid that he willdo something to mess that up.  
  
And the weight of Sherlock's words conferred onto John yet another significant responsibility that, if he were somehow unable to keep, could mean risking Sherlock's well-being. _As long as you’re here, I'll stay clean._  
  
Sherlock needs John, not only as a friend or colleague; he needs him for his own safety.  
  
John will always be there for Sherlock; that much is certain. They need each other- though John is unsure if Sherlock's need matches his own, there is no denying that they are two halves of a whole.  
  
In the end, though, John also has an obligation to his family. He wants to be a good father. He will not, cannot, be absent in his daughter’s life. But can she survive the lifestyle that John has chosen? What if he inadvertently puts his future daughter, or Mary, in danger? He can't quell the paralysing fear that his decisions will eventually lead to letting down someone who vastly depends on him.  
  
In fact, this is probably his greatest fear.  
  
As John’s anxieties begin to spin in his brain, he gazes up at Sherlock, who is giving him a long, questioning look. John’s ears feel warm as it occurs to him how loud his thoughts must be. He finds himself feeling completely vulnerable, certain that Sherlock must be reading him like an open book. He straightens up in his chair in an effort to collect himself.    
  
"Clowns," Sherlock notes.  
  
"Er... pardon?" John responds, perplexed.  
  
"You promised to tell me about your fear of clowns," Sherlock prods impatiently.  
  
“Oh, God. I did, didn’t I. It’s so… it’s ridiculous. But it’s true. They’ve always given me the willies.”  
  
Sherlock can’t hide his amusement, a smile briefly lighting up his eyes. "I don’t blame you, honestly. They’re not something I’m fond of, either. Mycroft always had a thing for them. I think, in a former life, he may have been a clown, or a jester, or...something equally moronic.”  
  
"Former life?" John teases. "I’d say what he does now isn’t far from that."  
  
Sherlock chuckles, and John watches, allowing a smile to creep onto his own face. So, that was it; he would just avoid the heavy subject matter by steering the conversation to his more minor fears. "I also hate airplanes," he proceeds.  
  
"Really? You mean to tell me that Three Continents Watson is afraid of flying?"  
  
"It's true. I can’t stand it. In fact, I have this recurring dream where I wake up in a plane full of, er... unconscious people. Everyone seems dead as a doornail, even the pilots. But the plane is still in the air. I pick up my phone to make a phone call- don't ask how that works- but the person on the other line can’t seem to help me. So I’m just stuck on this plane, until I wake up."  
  
“I imagine your therapist would quite enjoy picking that one apart.”  
  
“Well, it's only a dream.” John pauses, pursing his lips. “I also have slight claustrophobia, brought on by a pretty traumatic childhood experience. It's really ridiculous, but I swear it happened."  
  
"Much as I do appreciate good dramatic buildup, John- it's not a requirement. Do get on with it."  
  
"Okay." John leans back. "I was about six years old. I was visiting an aunt and uncle out in the country. I've always been a little, er, restless, I suppose you could say- they had this old fashioned well in their garden- you know, the kind you use to fill up water."  
  
Sherlock nods.  
  
"I decided to climb down and explore it. While I was down there, I got my leg caught underneath a rock, and I couldn't get out. I screamed and screamed, but nobody heard me. They had no idea I was in there. I was stuck there for hours until my aunt figured out I had gone missing."  
  
“Sounds like a Vatican cameos situation,” Sherlock teases.  
  
John smiles, shaking his head. “If only that were a thing back then. NOBODY ignores Vatican Cameos.”  
  
“Never.”  
  
“Nope. Never.”  
  
After a moment of silence, John notices Sherlock eyeing him again.  
  
“There’s still something you aren’t telling me,” Sherlock surmises.  
  
“There are, um… there are plenty of things I don’t tell you," John responds cautiously.  
  
Sherlock grins. “You’ve already shared quite a bit tonight. Why stop now? It’s been fascinating getting to know more about what makes you tick, John.” His voice conveys a sense of playfulness, but John could tell that he is being sincere. “There’s one more fear you haven’t talked about, but I think I can gather what it is.”  
  
John tries, only somewhat successfully, not to let a sense of dread set in. He isn’t sure whether he is prepared to let Sherlock know what he has been thinking about- the fear that he might not be enough for Sherlock, for his family- the realisation of their mutual need for one another. Surely, though, John's thoughts had been so loud that he hadn’t even needed to verbalise them. “Right, then. Go on. Tell me."  
  
Sherlock locks eyes onto John’s with intent. “What I said to you a few minutes ago, about staying off of drugs. It seems that I may have frightened you. Because you have such a strong sense of loyalty, of duty. It’s your most noticeable trait; your dedication to those you care about.” Sherlock laces his fingers together beneath his chin. “And you’re afraid of what would happen if that somehow ceased to be true. Not that it ever would. As I've already said, you can't just completely go and change the type of person you are."  
  
John nods slowly, not breaking eye contact. “You’re aware that that’s not the whole of it, though.”  
  
“No, it isn’t.” Sherlock begins to tap his foot thoughtfully. “But you might not like to hear the rest out loud.”  
  
John gives a wry smile. “Again, I ask- when has that ever stopped you?”  
  
“John, I know you think that I say every fleeting thought that enters my mind, but that’s far from true.” Sherlock bites his lip before continuing. “There are, of course, things I keep from you as well.”  
  
John’s heart thumps so loudly that he is absolutely sure it is audible. His eyes flicker away from Sherlock's, up to the curls that frame his face, and down to his mouth. “Well,” he said, “After sharing so much, it wouldn’t be fair to leave me in the dark, would it?"  
  
Sherlock presses his lips gently into a straight line, his eyes dulling. "Though the aforementioned traits are admirable,” he begins, “they have put you in a situation that may not work out so well for you in the end. You're aware of Mary's dangerous past, but you've agreed to take her back, out of obligation to your child."  
  
John feels the crushing weight of guilt on his chest. Sherlock is right- this is not something he is quite ready to hear out in the open. Not because Sherlock is completely off point, but because the fact that he acknowledges it makes it that much more real. John opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, and Sherlock continues.  
  
“You haven't considered the danger that her past might actually be posing to your child, though it's a very real threat. Resentment has already started to build, and it will only get heavier. Especially because there's someone else."  
  
"Someone else?" John croaks. "Mary's got someone else?"  
  
"No, John. Not Mary. You."  
  
John stares blankly at Sherlock, speechless. God, he hated him so much sometimes- for invading his thoughts, for reading him so easily, for partaking in matters that weren't his business. Though, John acknowledges numbly, he supposes this time, it actually is his business.  
  
Sherlock stops talking, and he looks back at John, gauging his response. John feels an ache in his chest. Does he know?  
  
“Sherlock," John says quietly. “I need to ask you a question.”  
  
Sherlock raises his eyebrow, a bit wary, undoubtedly having expected a different, more heated response. "So, I was right, then?" he presses.  
  
John closes his eyes and lets out an exasperated sigh. “You're not exactly...wrong.”  
  
"Not exactly. I've left something out, then."  
  
“Sherlock," John says again. "I know you think that the choice I made to take back Mary isn't exactly wise. And maybe you're right, maybe she and I aren't in love in the traditional sense. But the thing is, it's something I thought long and hard about, and in the end, it isn't about me and what I want. We're talking about a child, here."  
  
Sherlock nods slowly.  
  
"Besides," John huffs, recalling the night that Mary had been exposed. "If I remember correctly, it was originally you who told me I should trust her, even after you showed me her true nature."  
  
Sherlock draws in a short, sharp inhalation, grimacing slightly. "I made a deduction using the information I had at the time, but other things have become clear to me since. And if you'll remember, I was mere seconds from passing out- probably not the best judge of character at that precise moment."  
  
John is still searching for the words to say, but Sherlock continues to steer the conversation.  
  
"John. What was the question you wanted to ask?"  
  
John tilts his head in hesitation, his heart continuing to beat faster. "Yes. The question. Er...why exactly, would you think I'm in love with someone else?"  
  
"I know you. I know what behaviours you display when you're at your most content. I have seen it. But when I see you with Mary, it's clear by your face, by your tiniest actions, the wistful looks you give, that what you want is with someone else and not her."  
  
The pain in John's chest deepens, and his hands shake slightly as he asked the next question. "And just... who do you think that person is?"  
  
Sherlock sighs deeply. “You know that matters of the heart are not really my forte. Besides, the who isn’t important, it’s the what. Though I really, REALLY do not understand these things, I would assume that you would be happier if you were with the person you did feel this for. I do want you to be happy, John."  
  
John’s face is on fire- he can’t believe that Sherlock, the cleverest person he knows, is so remarkably unaware. He looks directly into Sherlock's eyes and searches them for any hint that he could be hiding the truth, but he does, in fact, seem utterly clueless.  
  
“It’s someone you know,” John continues.  
  
“I know many people.”  
  
“Not as well as you know this person.”  
  
“John, I really don’t feel like playing twenty questions with you.”  
  
John swallows hard, continuing to gather his courage. “It’s someone who I spend a lot of time thinking about.”  
  
“Yes. Obviously.”  
  
“And spend quite a bit of time with.”  
  
“And?"  
  
“Someone who I text. A lot.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“It's really no secret that you go through my texts and read them. Who are they for?"  
  
“Well, there’s Mary, of course. Stamford. Lestrade, on occasion. But mostly, just me.”  
  
John rolls his eyes in disbelief. “And what could you deduce from that, you idiot?”  
  
“Well, I wouldn’t really say Stamford was your type, nor Lestrade, and both of them seem to like women, though the latter could be swayed with a few drinks-”  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock stops talking and raises an eyebrow in curiosity.  
  
“Do you remember when I asked you to be my best man?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“And you couldn't, for the life of you, understand who I was going to ask, though the answer was perfectly clear?”  
  
"Yes, well I...Oh." Sherlock's mouth gapes open as a sense of realisation creeps upon his face. 

He looks as though his entire universe has been flipped.

"John," he whispers. He bolts up from the couch and steps cautiously toward where John is sitting. He grabs John by the shoulders and yanks him up out of his chair clumsily. Neither of them say another word as Sherlock’s eyes burn into John’s face, searching for an answer, a hint that John may be putting him on.

“John,” Sherlock repeats. “If you’re saying what I think you might be saying-“

“It’s you, Sherlock,” John interrupts.

And Sherlock’s expression goes blank. “You’re not… you’re sure?” He shakes John by the shoulders. “You’re serious?”

“Oi,” John responds. “Stop shaking me. That hurts.” He wriggles himself out of Sherlock’s grip, but looks back at him with an expression of both fondness and amusement. “Yes,” he says. “Of course I’m serious. I don’t lie about these things.”

Sherlock stands before him, silent for several seconds.

“Sherlock,” John prods. When he doesn’t get a response, he reaches his hand out and takes Sherlock’s into his. The tactile response immediately brings Sherlock back to Earth. He blinks owlishly, gazing down. Enraptured by their hands being joined, he stares for a bit longer, before finally, in a hushed voice, he speaks. “And what do you… plan to do about that?”

John sighs and squeezes Sherlock’s hand once before dropping it. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “I’m going to need to figure a few things out. I do know one thing, though." He raises his hand and touches the crown of Sherlock’s head, stroking back a stray curl. “Whenever I’m with you, all I can think about is how beautiful you are. How much I want to hold you. How much I want to kiss you.”

Sherlock leans into John’s touch with a smile that is bittersweet. “Then what has stopped you?” He whispers.

“Fear,” John replies.

“Fear is nothing more than a biological response,” Sherlock says.

Wordlessly, John leans up and presses his lips to Sherlock’s.

 

* * *

 

Mary, upon arriving back at the flat, is wholly unsurprised to see that John has still not returned from Baker Street. It is actually a relief- this would give her time to set the stage.  
  
Her previous efforts to kill Sherlock Holmes had, so far, not worked in her favour. But in the meantime, torturing him had been a delight. Though Mary is clever, it doesn't take a criminal mastermind to figure out that the most effective way to make Sherlock suffer is by taking John Watson from him.  
  
And she has continued to do just that- little by little, time and time again. Much to her satisfaction, over the past couple of years, she has watched Sherlock completely deteriorate from an unstoppable force of nature into a sentimental, heartbroken git.  
  
Moriarty had figured it out immediately; adorning John in Semtex had been a brilliant way to get what he had wanted. And that day at the pool, as Mary pointed the bright red beam of her weapon onto John from behind the rafters, she had known as well.  
  
After Sherlock faked his death- in a nauseating effort to save his dear John- he had made his way through her and Moriarty's network, ridding each of their invaluable personnel one by one. He was always too fast for her, too clever, so she did what she needed to do to exact revenge.  
  
How beautiful it had been to see Sherlock's horror every time he had to rush to save his "damsel in distress." To see Sherlock ruining himself on drugs every time he is separated from John for more than a couple of weeks. But her crowning achievement has been watching his pain as she and John went through their sham of a marriage; as she made sure to twist the knife at every opportunity. Seeing his face when she had convinced him that she was "pregnant;" observing him storm out of their wedding.  
  
She had hoped, of course, that by using Magnussen to lure Sherlock in, she could shoot him point blank and be rid of him. But she should have known it wouldn't be that easy. No, that plan had been absolutely foiled by Sherlock's valiant will to live. And although the moron had exposed her as an assassin, there was, thankfully, so much more they didn't know. And John removing himself from her life temporarily had given her the time she needed to come up with another plan.  
  
The goal had been to have Magnussen blackmail Sherlock into leaving the country, thereby having him "accidentally" meet up with one of her very closest assassin friends. She should have known that Sherlock would go as far as to kill Magnussen to keep John happy. Losing Magnussen was hardly a burden for her. She only needed to revise her plan slightly, and pull a few strings with the government to help make sure Sherlock ended up where she wanted.    
  
But, alas, that plan also fell through. Mary is still absolutely befuddled as to how the hell someone had gotten video footage of Moriarty, and why the hell they chose to stream it all over the bloody country just as Sherlock was leaving. She knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Moriarty is dead, but it definitely seemed that someone was messing with her and wanted to ensure Sherlock stayed in London.  
  
Another puzzle for another day, Mary thinks ruefully.  
  
Today, she will kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Obviously, she had thought about giving the TD-12 to Sherlock. Why not mess with that beautiful brain a bit, driving him to complete insanity before killing him? But no, she'd much rather see him go through the heartbreak of watching John live his own nightmare.  
  
Just then, Mary’s phone lights up: a text message from John: _Can we talk?_  
  
Tonight would be as good a night as any.


	3. Chapter 3

_Of course. I’ll see you soon, my love._ John looks at his cell phone for a moment before putting it back into his pocket. The twinge of guilt he feels reading those words from Mary is palpable. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that he is headed home to basically break her heart.

She would cry, maybe. They would hug and agree to remain friends and then… then what? He would return to Baker Street? He would find his own place? What about their daughter? Who would she live with?

Oh, god. He can’t leave their daughter. He has to figure this out. He has to do the right thing. Not just for himself, but for his family.

“John,” a deep voice utters, barely above a whisper; and John feels a hand stroke the back of his neck. The feeling sends shivers throughout John’s entire body, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Whether it’s due to the overwhelming sense of Sherlock’s hand on his neck, or his surmounting emotions, is difficult to tell.

“John,” Sherlock repeats, this time a tad more urgent. He is standing directly in front of John, head hanging downward and gazing at him with his piercing eyes. “You’re thinking too loud again. Stop it.”

John chuckles. “I’ll try to tell my thoughts to whisper, then.” Unconsciously, he leans his head back into Sherlock’s touch.

“John, I know that his decision is not an easy one. But I suppose you are aware that, whatever you decide, whomever you choose. I’m not going to stop… erm,” he swallows nervously. “We can still, you know, be-“

“Yeah, Sherlock. I know. We’re always going to be friends.” John opens his eyes and smiles weakly up at Sherlock, because he doesn’t know if that’s ever going to be enough.

“That said-“ Sherlock takes a small step forward, closing the space between the two of them. “I suppose you ought to have all of the data before coming to a conclusion.”

John’s breathing becomes quicker, and he knows he should move back, but he doesn’t. He gulps. “Yeah?” Is all he manages to say.

“You said. That you have feelings for me. That when you’re around me, you want to… kiss me?” And out of nowhere, Sherlock has John backed against the wall. His arms spread out next to John, one on either side of his head. He then leans down, his breath ghosting over John’s ear, and whispers, “I hope you know that both of those sentiments are very much mutual.”

John groans as Sherlock backs away slowly. “Yeah,” John says with a shake of his head. “I sort of figured, but thanks for making it clear.” He stares at Sherlock, whose bluish green eyes are at the same time piercing and soft, vulnerable. John doesn’t know what he’s going to do. So for now, he decides to pull his hand up to Sherlock’s curls and run his fingers delicately down his cheek.

He’s so fucked.

“Sherlock, I have to-“

“Yes, yes. Go home. Talk. Figure it out. I trust you’re going to do… what’s best.”

John takes his hand from Sherlock’s face and sets it on his shoulder, looking into his eyes with a force of resolution. “Are you going to be okay?” It’s the first time John will be leaving Sherlock since his relapse. He has searched the flat up and down; he is sure there are no drugs present. Mostly sure.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve had an experiment I’ve been dying to work on all day. It will be a good distraction,” Sherlock reassures him.

“Alright.” John nods. They gaze at one another for another long moment, and John’s head spins.

“You should, er…” Sherlock begins.

“Yes, yes. Going.” John turns and opens the door. “I’ll see you soon, Sherlock.”

 

* * *

 

The key turns. Mary smiles to herself. John walks in, and he looks confused, lost, and broken. Ah, this should be easy then.

They embrace. Mary asks what he wanted to talk about. He explains to her that, since she shot Sherlock, things haven’t been the same for him. That he’s not sure he can ever forgive her. That Sherlock is very, very important to him.

Mary shushes him softly. “I know, darling,” she says. “I know.” And she reaches up behind his head, holding a small statue from John’s travels in her hand, and knocks him unconscious.

—-

When John comes to, he is tied up on a chair in their living room. Mary is sitting on the floor in front of him. At least, he thinks it’s Mary. Everything is blurry. He can’t see straight. And he thinks Mary is laughing at him.

“TD-12,” she says. “A drug created to cure PTSD, but instead, it makes people hallucinate their worst fears as though they were actually happening. Oh, don’t worry,” she reassures him. “It’s not going to kill you. It might make you suffer a little bit, but I’ll make sure Sherlock is here to see all of it.”

“Sherlock,” is all John manages to utter. It’s slurred and his mouth is completely dry.

“He'll be here,” Mary says. “Just relax and go to sleep.”

And so that’s what John does.

\---

 _Meet me at my flat. Urgent._ Sherlock stares at the text from John.

_Everything alright? SH_

_No. I need you here immediately._

_Coming. SH_

\--

_John’s flat. Send help. Not sure what’s happening, but it’s not good. SH_

_On it. -Lestrade_

\---

Mary finishes the final texts to Sherlock and sets down John’s cell phone. She doesn’t have to wait long. Soon, there is a knock at the door. “It’s open,” she calls out.

The door swings open, and Sherlock walks in. He is immediately flooded with the agonising realisation that something is wrong with John. His eyes snap to the back of the sitting room, and John is strapped to a chair, unconscious but moaning and shivering feverishly.

“John!” he calls out, dashing to his side. He kneels before him, reaching out and shaking him, trying to get him to awaken. John doesn’t respond.

A voice approaches from the corner. “You’re not going to reach him. Not yet.” Sherlock bounds upward. “Mary,” he breathes. His eyes narrow. “What happened to him?”

Mary gives a noncommittal wave. “Oh, just some drugs. I’m sure you can relate,” she says. “Only these ones aren’t so happy.”

Sherlock’s breathing becomes rapid with anger. His face darkens, and glares at the woman before him. “Why did you do this?” He demands.

“I did it to get back at you. I wanted to see you suffer. And I’ve been doing a great job of it so far, don’t you think? Doing everything possible to get between you and the man you love?”

Sherlock does not speak. John’s shaking is becoming more pronounced, his groaning is starting to become terrified whimpers.

“And now I’m going to make sure you watch him suffer,” Mary says.

Sherlock can’t believe he’s been so blind all of this time. So it seems that what he’s always said about love- a chemical defect found on the losing side- was right. His sentiment for John had completely blinded him to the fact that this woman was, in all actuality, only using John to get back at Sherlock.

“You’re part of Moriarty’s Network,” he surmises.

“Oh, sweetheart. I am the network,” she replies. “And since you destroyed it, I’ve been doing all I can to destroy you.”

“And none of this is real,” Sherlock states. “You never loved him. The baby, it’s… something you made up to keep him around.”

“Took you long enough,” Mary rolls her eyes and chuckles.

“I made a vow to dismantle Moriarty’s Network,” Sherlock utters through clenched teeth. “To protect my friends. To protect John. And I was very thorough about it. At least I presumed I was.”

“Looks like you missed someone,” Mary teases, and without warning, Sherlock reaches into his pocket, pulls out a gun, and shoots Mary in the leg. Enough to cause her injury. To incapacitate her, but not to kill her. 

"Looks like I've finished the job," he growls.

Mary cries out and collapses to the floor. John cries out, too.

Police sirens approach the flat, and the members of the force burst in. An ambulance is called for Mary. And for John. They are both whisked away. Mary is unconscious and doesn’t struggle. John is unconscious too, but he seems to be struggling more.

It’s all a blur to Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

John isn’t unconscious for long. For a few hours, but to Sherlock, it’s the most trying few hours of his life. John is tied to the hospital bed, screaming in agonizing horror. He looks so small, so helpless. The doctors and Lestrade have explained everything  to Sherlock. Mary had given him a drug called TD-12. The drug had put John into a comatose state, but during that time, he was living his worst fears.

Mary was going to survive the gunshot. She was also going to prison for several murders. None of it matters right now to Sherlock. He just wants to never see John suffer again.

The moment John awakens is the hardest part of all. The look of utter fear and sadness in his eyes is heartbreaking to Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” John sobs. “Where is she?”

Sherlock assumes he is talking about Mary, but wants to be sure before speaking.

“Where is she?! Where is Rosie?” John demands.

Sherlock has no idea who Rosie is.

“Where is my daughter?!” John is practically screaming at this point.

“John,” Sherlock presses his lips together. “I don’t… I am not quite sure how to tell you about this, but you don’t have a daughter. Mary was lying to you.”

“Mary? Mary is dead,” John says, completely lacking emotion. “And you killed her.”

Sherlock winces. “No. I didn’t kill her. I only injured her.”

“No,” John replies. “She was dead. I saw her die. At the aquarium. A gun shot.”

He runs a hand over his face nervously. “There was a man, Culverton, he tried to kill you. And you, Mycroft, and I, we were all at Sherrinford.”

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock knows that this is going to take time. Those who have taken TD-12, at first, are unable to distinguish reality from the hallucination. At Baker Street, he sits by John’s side every day. And every day, John asks the same kinds of questions. Because he isn’t always sure what is actually real, and what was part of his hallucination.

“You’re a consulting detective and my best friend.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies. “That’s real.”

”My wife turned out to be an assassin, and she faked a pregnancy to keep me around.”

Sherlock presses his lips together sadly. “True,” he says. 

“You have a brother named Mycroft. In the British government.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, very real.”

John laughs. When John laughs, it makes Sherlock’s entire day better.

What he doesn’t like is when John remembers things that aren’t true.

“You have a dangerous sister who is locked away in a mental health facility and formed multiple identities in order to manipulate other people.”

“No, John. You do. Harriet, she’s your sister.”

“Then who is Eurus? What is The East Wind?”

“Nobody. The East Wind is something I referred to once, when telling you about my childhood. Nobody named Eurus exists. I don’t have a sister, John.”

\---

“You took drugs again. You were on a weeks long bender.”

“No. Not for months now. I promised you I wouldn’t do it again.”

”Redbeard.”

”My childhood dog?”

”So you’re... sure he was a dog, then?”

”What kind of question is that? Of course he was a dog.”

—-

“There was a plane. With people on it. And they were all dead.”

“That's just a nightmare you had."

“I fell into a well and almost drowned.”

“That happened to you when you were a child.”

John stares ahead of himself blankly, trying to make sense of everything.

——

Eventually, things get better. John is able to distinguish between what is real and what isn’t. But sometimes, very rarely, he forgets. One day, while they are sitting on the sofa in 221B, John takes Sherlock’s hand into his. His eyes are brimming with tears as he speaks.

“I think I’ve gotten most of my memories back. I can tell what’s real and what’s not. But there’s one more that plagues me,” he says hesitantly.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asks.

“We were in a morgue, and I was angry with you, and I hit you repeatedly.”

Sherlock furrows his brow. “That’s ridiculous. You would never do that. No, that is absolutely not real.”

John heaves a sigh of relief. “I didn’t think so. It’s just, it all felt like it really happened.”

“No,” Sherlock states. “I assure you that it didn’t.”

John smiles as though the weight of a thousand planets has been lifted from his chest. 

——-

After a few weeks, things return mostly back to normal. John has become his old self. They are solving cases, spending their time off together in the flat.

One chilly autumn night, Sherlock is sprawled out over the sofa. He hasn’t slept for days- such a thing is normal for him, but it’s starting to catch up and he begins to doze. He opens his eyes, and John is seated on the floor next to him, his eyes hesitantly gazing into his.

“Mm,” Sherlock mumbles. “Everything alright?”

“I need to know if something else is real or fake,” John says.

“Oh. Of course.” Sherlock swallows. John’s face is so close to his.

“We’re in love with each other,” John says simply.

Sherlock draws in a quick breath, unsure of how to choose his words. He searches John’s expression. Openness. Curiosity. Fear.

“John,” he whispers while placing his hand on his cheek. “Yes.” He sighs shakily. “That’s very, very real.”

“Oh, thank God,” John laughs. “I knew I couldn’t have imagined such a feeling.”

He kisses Sherlock, hard, and he knows this moment is one of the most real things he has ever experienced. 

—-

Come Winter, it’s as though the incident never happened. Sherlock and John don’t talk about it when they go to sleep entangled together, or when they wake up in the morning and make love. John slowly forgets all of the things that occurred in his hallucinations, filling the gaps instead with new, happy memories he creates with Sherlock. And the best part of all is that he’s not afraid anymore.

When he looks Sherlock in the eyes and tells him how much he adores him, he does it slowly, gently, and bravely. 

The fear has subsided, and love is all that remains. 


End file.
